


The Harbinger

by ZCreates (Zorav)



Category: Guild Wars 2 (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, I will always feel bad about Trahearne. :(, Just Two Sylvari, Trahearne and Malyck is now forever my friend-ship, Wintersday Zine, the dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-01
Updated: 2018-02-01
Packaged: 2019-03-12 07:30:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13542636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zorav/pseuds/ZCreates
Summary: "Much like pinpointing the start of a blossoming sunset, recalling the exact instant of falling asleep was always an impossibility, a hazy recollection of approximations that decorated each day’s memories. There was no capturing the moment where dream cascaded upon the doorstep of a mind, no conscious decision that said that now was the time that reality would fade. It was without definition, without any rule."Malyck joins Trahearne in the Dream; they talk about themselves, their secrets, and the burden they all share: life.Published Dec. 2017 as a part of the Wintersday Zine, named "Chimes" - Written by Mel Sayre (Zorav) and illustrated by Landylachs (check out the PDF, coming soon, for these) - stay tuned for 2018's fanbook!





	The Harbinger

Much like pinpointing the start of a blossoming sunset, recalling the exact instant of falling asleep was always an impossibility, a hazy recollection of approximations that decorated each day’s memories. There was no capturing the moment where dream cascaded upon the doorstep of a mind, no conscious decision that said that now was the time that reality would fade. It was without definition, without any rule. It was made of a certain cunning, persuading its prey into waiting arms with sugar-coated words.

Unlike that gradual oblivion  – one that swept its way in with a breathtaking ease  – waking was sharp, present, a clarity defined by jarring movement and the collision of thought. There was always a second where the mirror shattered, images reforming to become the world presenting itself as the life to be lived, dragging along with it whatever punishment or glory it would deserve.

Throughout his existence, it’d been a combination of both the good and bad. Some days he dreaded stumbling awake, wrenched from the comforting space of his dreams; other times he enjoyed the thoughtless quiet, a blanket that engulfed the tension involved with the responsibility of living. That invisible line between them often blurred what was real, and it was with a start, a dash of confusion that colored the air, in which he woke.

Immediately, his senses were marred with alarm, not recognizing the lightness in his veins or the push of the plants underneath his hands. The first breath he was conscious of was crisp and short, and the second burned his lungs when he inhaled too deeply. It didn’t take a scholar scolding him to be keenly aware that he was no longer in the Elonian desert.

The spicy scent in his nose, a tart sweetness, was familiar  – something he knew couldn’t exist anywhere but in the heart of the forest, a scene forever imprinted in his mind. It was the sprawling jungle paradise he’d long left behind, far enough in the past that it felt like another lifetime altogether. In the space of the world he’d slipped from, he knew the folds of sand surrounded what he could see, a dry heat always pushing in. Here, the world felt like it pulsed, a controlled life that he could feel even as he lay quietly, testing each of his senses in turn.

When he opened his eyes and pushed himself into a sitting position, he found himself surrounded by a blanket of darkness. It wasn’t surprising that an eerie silence floating around him, oddly comforting with its familiarity. Within this cage, the lack of light was absolute  – enough that he couldn’t see his hands, how close the walls were, what he was resting in. It could have been a threat as easily as a promise for unreachable treasures.

Sight was a fixable problem, and he was grateful that the dark wasn’t his enemy. With his emotions in check, manipulating his glow was easy, a process that could be bent to his will so long as his feelings didn’t interfere. While he didn’t know where he was, this world or the next, he found that his natural sylvari ability was still under his control. With a focused thought, the teal shine flickered to life, tinging the sides of his cage in a cool hue, and he narrowed his eyes at the walls he found himself in.

The pod he was in resonated an echoed memory, one that was an odd combination of those from the forests of Tyria and those that had been part of the jungle dragon’s wake. Curiosity winning over logic, he extended his hand to touch the clear film that lined the inside of the larger petals. From the simple connection, the lights on his skin surged, rushing forward to spread across the translucent seal, and the pod again went dark as the lights burst out of existence.

Before he had enough time to panic, his glow reappeared on the walls in front of him, familiar lettering floating on the inner petals, spinning a tale he only partly followed. In the years that had passed, his fluency in Orrian had become weaker  – a study that Trahearne had always been keen to teach him. With the words floating tauntingly across his eyes, he cursed not keeping up with it since that time, but it hadn’t felt right without his friend leading the way. It’d been just long enough that many of the words escaped him, but he could put the pieces together to understand what the pod was telling him.

Malyck knew he’d found his way into the Dream.

As with all magic that flowed across the earth, he wasn’t sure if he should be afraid to touch the scripture that danced in front of him. His glow had always been a part of him, one of the markers that said he was not so different from his companions. Having it stolen from his hands felt invasive, a snaking cold that was interwoven with unease.

With it gone, he felt naked, compelled to fight and pull it from the walls, but the tale that was forming was clearly meant for him in some way. He’d long since learned that magic was always with purpose, driven by an invisible intent that devoured hungrily, so he didn’t resist the scrawling text. It was all he could do to translate the words as they appeared, to let the characters paint a story that many curious scholars had chased after in their days.

The Pale Tree had never been his mother  – the distinction clear in how the Dream had never reached him despite searching for his own answers  – but she had been a figure that had always tried to welcome him. It had never been her concern if he was a child of a different tree or not, just that he followed the ways inscribed on the tablet. He felt nothing but the bittersweet reminder of that now while seeing the words before him.

The story painted on the pod walls was unfamiliar, speaking of a world before the one he knew. It was a depiction of magic and nature, an echo of a purpose and an existence that had eventually led to the creation of his kind. It talked of the love that nurtured the pulsing energy, of the minds that came to make up the Dream, of the creatures born to pursue their Wyld Hunts. The vibrant teal curled from one word to the next, talking of the nightmare that would plague the world, but also of the power that would be needed to cure it.

It didn’t escape him that all of this had already come to pass.

When the tale ended, he instinctively reached out to grab the last traces of fading light. It reacted to his touch, this time pulsing around him as more patterns than he could decipher spread across the pod in a single moment. The glow pulled off of the walls in vines, wrapping around his fingers and spreading over his skin. Where it touched left a glow in its wake, until all of the words that had made the tale had come back to him, and his glow returned to only tint the walls.

He didn’t have much time to think about the message or to ponder what to do next, interrupted by a ray of light erupting from one of the pod’s creases. In a bout of confusion, he could only blink as his eyes struggled to readjust. They gradually focused enough to find the silhouetted figure reaching for him.

Malyck didn’t need anything more than the calm tone to recognize his old friend, and took the hand without question, pushing past the translucent film and dark purple petals to set foot into the world outside.

Trahearne offered him a smile  – simple and honest  – and greeted him like he always had when they’d been apart for some time.

“It’s good to see you again, old friend.”

* * *

“Do you remember the first Wintersday after Orr was cleansed?”

Malyck almost hadn’t realized he’d been the one to ask the question until Trahearne paused mid stride, a few steps ahead of him. It was the slight action of turning back that pulled his attention out of the twisted frozen greenery.

The Grove around them glittered in a layer of frost, the winter in this dream turning the quiet landscape into a snowy palace of ice and evergreen. It was filled with shapes and places he remembered, but oddly devoid of the sounds and life that came with it. He’d expected the Dream to feel more surreal, to make him feel displaced and forcibly aware that he was in a different realm. Instead, his senses found the echo of the past calming. Making the stretch to believe this was his reality would have been easy.

The scent from before still floated around them from little red flowers along the path, growing on sloping vines that reached into the trees. The fresh snow, with no evidence of the cloud that brought them, glittered in the sunlight, pressed flat beneath their feet as the pair found their way down familiar roads. It all painted a picture of a world he knew like a distant memory.

The firstborn waited for Malyck to catch up with an unmistakable look of patience, the same one that had coached him through pages of endless scripture. Meeting his gaze, his older companion schooled a humored expression into one of thoughtfulness, answering Malyck’s question with a hidden laugh. “It was the first time you saw snow.”

It wasn’t a question, instead a confirmation of their past. It was hard to tell if it was a test, questions to determine if he really was who Trahearne believed him to be. If it was one, Malyck couldn’t blame him. Even in the Dream, not everyone was a friend. “It was different.”

“I remember you were quite caught up in it,” Trahearne noted, tugging a small flower loose as Malyck fell in beside him.

“It was strange to see snow. This dream is just like back then – where it coated the world in white, transforming it,” he commented with a shrug. He watched as the calculating eyes studied the flower twirled between long fingers. The amber-eyed sylvari inclined his head toward the path and resumed walking, and Malyck took in another crisp breath before he matched his friend’s pace, following in the firstborn’s steps through the snow. “In moments like that, the line between wonder and alarm runs thin.”

“This picture of the Grove is probably an echo of that time,” Trahearne said as he placed the flower in a snow pile they passed, a touch of vibrant red in an expanse of white, before glancing at him with a crooked smile. “You were always somewhat skeptical of things you didn’t understand.”

“Can you blame me?” Malyck asked as he walked alongside his friend. “Every unknown I faced was a danger; I never knew what outcome it could bring. It could bring misery as easily as joy. Always presuming the former is what kept me alive."

It didn’t surprise him when Trahearne offered a simplistic retort. “We are all more than just a summation of unknowns, the Dream or the Nightmare, one tree or another.”

Malyck paused at the memory the mention of Nightmare brought  – it was one that sharply contrasted the snow around them to a malicious fire. “It’s been a long time since I’ve thought about the Nightmare.”

Trahearne turned his gaze upward to stare at the weave of ice and vine in the canopy. “Everything in life is a puzzle to solve. We all have our trials, especially those who have a path to follow. The Dream provides a vision, guidance. Even the Nightmare, in a way, also provides that. You never had either of those things, never bent, and yet here you are.”

The amber eyes narrowed slightly as they studied Malyck, calmness emanating from the level look. After a moment’s pause, a smile pulled at the fine lips, hinting that he’d found the answer he’d been looking for. Malyck admitted to himself that if this was just a vision of Trahearne, it was an immaculate painting of his friend.

There were too many questions that he’d wanted to ask over the years, but most felt unimportant now that he was given the ability to ask them. He let his fingers run across the vines encased in ice, droplets rubbing off on his skin as he mulled over what this could mean. “Have you been here all along, Trahearne?”

For a moment, the soft glow that seemed ever present with Trahearne pulsed like a heartbeat, echoing some ingrained feeling. He wondered what that emotion was, but the sylvari’s expression didn’t betray what it could be. “I’ve seen a few seasons pass here.”

“And this is really the Dream?”

“You read the Orrian, I assume.” Malyck nodded at the indirect answer. “It’s a version of it. It’s what became of the Dream, or at least what I know of it. I never completely escaped the touch of magic that tainted the world.”

“Has anyone?” Trahearne tilted his head, clearly curious, so Malyck pressed on. “Many still have nightmares about what happened in the wars, even if that time has passed. The sylvari still hear voices in their sleep. Everyone endures the pain of those gone.” Trahearne hummed his understanding, and Malyck sighed heavily. “As long as our memories are with us, it may be gone, but our minds keep both darkness and light alive.”

Trahearne seemed to consider this. “I suppose not forgetting keeps both sides from fading away, doesn’t it?”

They entered a small alcove, stepping down from the snow into a grove filled with emerald green grass. Malyck turned back to look at the frost-laden fields they were moving out of, but it wasn’t his imagination. Here, the air was coated with a circulating warmth. “What is this?”

“Everything has a center.” Trahearne was looking at him when he turned back, standing a few paces away in a pool of moving energy that flowed like water. The older sylvari ushered him closer, offering a hand to him again. “Those that came before you lived with the marks of the past, plagued by nightmares from a being that tried to become them. There is a balance to all of it.”

“That’s just the flow of life, I’d imagine.”

“My my, little sapling, you’ve become so wise.” Malyck waved off the teasing, studying the patterns of the grass around them as he reached out to take the firstborn’s hand. The grip was strong as he was tugged into the surging rift.

“What is this going to do?”

That smile was there again, expectant and waiting, before it vanished under the curtain of energy that wrapped around them both. “You’ll just have to trust me.”

* * *

When he opened his eyes, he found himself alone, standing in the middle of a path with a chill sinking into his skin. The silence whispered words that said all was not as it seemed, a defiance painted into the scene presented before him. The world was no longer a picture of the home of the sylvari, but rather a turbulent reminder of a distant recollection, carved into the dark memories of the dead.

Here he was surrounded by a world of gray, collapsed columns and rubble spread in every direction. It was a tattered reflection of a once bustling world, fragments strewn around his feet like shattered glass. Most of what he saw was old, some of it unquestionably ceremonial, some of it the remnants of day-to-day life left behind.

The footprints heading down toward the horizon were the only hint of what path to take. Faced with the options of waiting to be found or seeking out his path, he chose to follow the impressions in the snow framed in the spectacular destruction, wariness crawling up his spine as he walked into the unknown. It didn’t take long for him to find the owner of the prints, perched on a fallen pillar overlooking a clearing. The only object there was an imposing blank tablet, perfectly smooth as it blocked out the setting sun.

“Do you know where we are?” Trahearne asked, seemingly studying the darkness that began to stretch around them.

“I’d wager still in the Dream,” Malyck remarked dryly. There was no shaking the skepticism that grabbed at him about standing in a world that had died, but this person  – Dream or no Dream  – was still his companion; even in the wake of corruption, Trahearne had managed to save himself, only bearing the scars that remained.

“In the Dream in an empty Orr,” the sylvari commented, golden glows running across his features, emphasizing a certain tiredness. The glowing lines pulsed in time with his breaths, the slab of stone in front of him drenching him in a darkness that made him look ethereal, torn between a split of light and dark.

Malyck avoided the shadows, walking along the edge where ruin became ash, running fingers across broken columns. He could see what the faded corruption had done to this world, but also what the vines had done as they’d crawled along the edge of stones, tunneling through pillars and crumbling them to ash. One corruption had replaced another, a remnant of the world Trahearne had barely been torn away from.

“This is the remnant of your Wyld Hunt?” As he heard Trahearne’s soft confirmation, he studied the old words etched into some of the panels, weaving together stories he was sure Trahearne knew by heart. He imagined that his friend was somewhat at home here, under the answers he’d sought of a world he’d loved. “Why are you waiting?”

“Not waiting, watching. Watching for when the past and present blur together.” Malyck sighed at the cryptic answer, crossing the line into the dark. The firstborn patted the spot beside him with a smile Malyck recognized. “Tell me  – you have no Dream, but you follow others that have one. You never told me why.”

“You can still believe in a path without someone defining it for you.” Malyck climbed onto the pillar beside Trahearne, finding that the glow on Trahearne’s skin had faded, a calm having returned to his composure. “Someone doesn’t have to tell me that it’s right for it to be true.”

“Is it as simple as that?”

“Why does it need to be complicated?” He shrugged as the amber eyes studied him. “I was told that the Dream was a sense of purpose, something to guide us to the light. That doesn’t mean that everything without it is ill-fated.”

Trahearne laughed airily, shrugging with a certain degree of helplessness. “You certainly became what you wanted to be. I didn’t envy your lack of a Dream, but I did envy your freedom to influence and be influenced. It was a harder path, I’m certain.”

Malyck hummed his contemplation, eyes averting to the sky as the colors began to appear, the edges of the rock silhouetted by the setting sun. “What are we doing here, Trahearne?”

“It’s Wintersday, my friend  – I figured I owed you a gift.” Malyck turned back to protest before Trahearne shook his head, cutting him off. “As I said, we’re watching. Look.”

Malyck’s attention was dragged away from his friend as colors erupted from behind the tablet  – splashes of red, blue, purple, with the golden light framing the edges. He wanted to ask what he should be looking for, not seeing the answer Trahearne clearly sought. His eyes caught the golden lines at the top of the tablet just as he turned to jab at his friend, but the words froze him in place. It started slow, a tentative loopy scrawl, before the script began to write itself as if someone in a different world was painting the story.

This time, none of the words vanished but burned brightly in the enclosing night. He stumbled through the Orrian quietly, but there was no mistaking what it was, what Trahearne had led him here for. “It’s my story,” Malyck muttered to himself. “It’s right there.”

“I imagine it gives as many answers as questions.”

Malyck studied it, taking in the words one at a time while they glowed before them  – once, twice, then again for good measure. He let out a slow breath. “Why are you still here, Trahearne?”

“My Wyld Hunt is over but my Dream is never done. Perhaps you can see it now that you’re here,” Trahearne offered quietly. “The Dream has always accepted you, even if you can’t hear it, see it, understand it. You’ve protected it for so many, and it protects you in turn.”

Malyck leaned back, glancing at the glittering stars above them. It was hard not to get caught up in contemplating the answers he’d be seeking for so long, what they could mean for him now, but the past rang just as loudly in his ears. “They once said I was no one.”

He could sense Trahearne laughing beside him, and turned his gaze to his friend, a simple contentedness to the expression he found there. “You’re someone, Malyck, and it’s someone the world is glad you turned into.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed it! It was fantastic working with Landy to make this come to life, and the fanzine was incredible to moderate and put together. So excited to do another year, sponsored by ArenaNet. :)


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